Not Bad
by skaia7
Summary: The boys head to a bar on Friday night, and Dean finds comfort in a surprising place. Sick!Dean, angst, mentions of Sammy but not really about the brother dynamic... Enjoy!


_Dean and Sam stop by a bar on a Friday night, looking for some – ahem – distractions. Not realizing exactly what five shots of whiskey, a lingering cold, and some feminine TLC will do to Dean's emotions. Set after dad's gone and before Hell. _

**Not Bad**

It wasn't bad, all things considering.

Noisy bar, Friday night. It's packed, everybody just passing through. Two guys. Brothers. Towering giant with a baby face, and his green-eyed brother who hits on every nearby thing with a skirt. His nose is chapped, a bar napkin never far from his hand as he dabs and coughs lightly. "Getting over a cold," he explains to a curvy blonde who - unfortunately for him - has her eye on a tattooed guy playing pool. A few seconds later he catches a sneeze in the paper, an airy, _"h'CHsss!"_ that flushes his cheeks.

"Another whiskey?" the bartender asks, flipping her brown hair over her shoulder.

"Always," he replies with a wicked wink.

How she ended up getting picked is anyone's guess. God knows she wasn't the best looking piece of tail he could have nailed. But she was willing. Easy. And probably just the first to press close to his ear as his hand cupped her ass and shout over the music, "You wanna take this someplace else?"

He'd flicked a glance to his brother who had his tongue down Nora's throat. Good. Nora'd just been dumped - again - and could use a shot to her ego. She'd treat the kid right. Hopefully he'd return the favor.

If Green Eyes hadn't had that last shot, he'd probably have left right after it was over. But he'd whipped his dark head back one last time, slamming the empty glass - his fifth - on the counter before staggering to his feet, letting her arm around his waist lead him out the back door and down a couple of doors to her place.

Key in the lock, his mouth on the back of her neck, his hands on her breasts, then fumbling in the dark, weaving their way to her bedroom. He whips his head to the side once for a sneeze, "_wh'PSCH! _Dammit. Sorry." Then gasping, groping, sweat. Her room is spinning, his body warm and hard, hers soft and pliant, and - shit, nobody's done THAT in a while and OH GOD he was _damned_ _good _at it - and then he's on top of her.

Something shifts, changes, his hands clenching spastically into her sides as his mouth moves just a little too hungrily - a little too desperate. Gone is the cocky, flirtatious cad from the bar. Instead, a man whose holding on so hard and so tight, like he's scrabbling to regain something that's slippery and elusive, disappearing right through his fingers.

Then it's all over and his weight comes down to settle against her with a shuddering sigh. This is the part where she expects maybe a caress and a "well, it's late and I should get going" or maybe for him to wait for her to fall asleep before sneaking out.

The last thing she expects is for one arm to slowly snake around her waist, for his face to disappear into the hollow of her neck.

Maybe its his hesitation, the way he moves- a little clumsy, uncertain- but she's somehow convinced this is far from his usual M.O.

At first she blames it on that fifth shot, on a body too sated with whiskey and sex to move. She's had one or two guys like that before, who couldn't every really truly _sleep_ until they'd exhausted themselves with booze and sex. But the air shifts, sobriety blanketing her and bringing all her awareness to his body as she holds her breath, waiting. It's coming. _Something._

The first shudder shakes them both, a quick head-to-toe quake that's gone almost before she registers it happened. The arm around her waist stiffens, and he draws a long and nakedly deliberate breath. He's fighting it. _Something._ And it doesn't escape her that she's had one too many beers to be this aware of it. She digs her front teeth into her lower lip, trying to decide whether to move - to put an arm around him in return - or just pretend to sleep until he drifts off.

Instinct. Hers has always been really good, which is how she makes such good money tending bar. She can tell when someone's going to want another drink, when they're ready to switch to something harder, when they need a friendly ear or when they just want to be left alone.

Right now all her bells are going off, but she's playing it cool. Letting him think she's passed out. The second shiver gives her the excuse to let out what she hopes is a sleepy, contented sigh and slip one arm under his neck. Still loose enough that he can slip away if that's his intention.

After a few more minutes of stillness, of willing her body to go completely lax as if in sleep, she feels him heave the tightest, most broken breath she's ever heard, slowly molding his body as close to hers as he can get. The sudden cold wetness on her neck is a shock, and she almost gives herself away, wanting to pull back and see his face. But he's so utterly silent, so knotted and _still _that she just knows if she does that he'll bolt.

Instinct. He needs this. Needs more than he knows how to ask for, needs so deeply and so desperately that it's welled up and seeping out his eyes.

A half-choked gasp for air, quickly stifled. She does another sleepy-girly-sigh-and-shift, managing to slip a leg between his, other arm going clumsily around his shoulders so they're both on their sides and his face is buried in her chest. Holding him. Without _holding him._

This, he can accept.

She doesn't sleep. Keeps her breathing even and deep, even manages a slight rasp to add that touch of believability. Her breastbone is wet and cold from his eyes, her collarbone sweaty where his forehead presses hard. She ignores each hitch of breath, only once reaching - fumbling - for the covers when he can't suppress the third tight wracking-shudder-quiver-tremble-shiver.

It would have been easier if he'd just let go, just let himself fucking _sob_ like his body seems to need to do so badly. But instead of giving in to a hard and fast crying jag that would have been over and done with in probably twenty minutes, he chuffs and chokes and trembles for over an hour. The great thing about the new position is she can open her eyes once in a while to check the clock, her chin resting in his sweaty hair.

He finally sinks into a reluctant sleep about 4 a.m., though her chest stays wet for another 10 minutes, a slow seep. His arm around her waist goes slack, his two-hitch sigh and heavy shift signaling his body's decision to shut down for the night. Game over. Done.

It wouldn't be the first time she'd seen a crying drunk, something about the combination of alcohol's weakening of inhibitions with the violent physical release of sex opening the flood gates.

This is the first time, though, she ever believed it went deeper than that.

Nora's apartment is next door, and through the walls she hears a couple of thuds and a sleepy giggle. Seems little brother's got good recovery.

Big brother gives a barely-audible whimper, which causes her arm to tighten in a light squeeze. It helps, even if the rhythmic rumble from next door picks up the pace and makes her roll her eyes. Forget about sleeping.

Her coffee pot kicks on about 7:30, just as the sun is spreading red fingers over the horizon. She eases her arms away, sure that he won't be happy to wake up like that.

Slipping out of bed, she pours 2 generous cups, not surprised to hear the toilet flush as she carries them back to her room. He comes out with bloodshot, bleary eyes, definitely hung over, wordlessly accepting the proffered cup and draining it in three long gulps.

"Have a shower," is all she says, switching his empty cup for her full one, leaving him looking down at it with a couple confused blinks as she goes back to the kitchen. Another sneeze echoes after her, _"hk'gCHu!"_

Ten minutes later he's more alert, stopping in the doorway as he buttons up his jeans. Shirt hanging over one shoulder, bare chest damp. She makes no effort to hide how her gaze lingers on the low-slung jeans that hang on his hips. Damp hair hanging in his eyes.

He takes her on the kitchen floor. Longer this time. Slower. _Sweeter. _Little brother might have good recovery but big brother has stamina.

She walks him to the door, keeping it light, her lazy, sated grin and flippant "thanks" giving him an easy out.

But he stops, one foot on the porch the other on her carpet, and before she knows it his hands cup her face and he kisses her. Languid. Sensual. Emotional.

The best thank-you she's ever had.

The screen door slams and she head off to take her own shower, not really wanting to lose the scent of him that clings to her skin but knowing she needs to get a start on her day.

And there it is. Propped against her toothbrush holder next to the sink. A small scrap of paper.

_Dean. 907-3235_

She texts him her number, not surprised when she receives no reply. She showers and gets ready to head out. Day job. Lovely.

Nora is gushing, going into more detail than she really needed, ending with a surreptitious, "So, how was yours?"

"Not bad." She smiles to herself. "Not bad."

_Fin._


End file.
